Once upon a time, a house fell asleep into the folds of time just between two centuries.
Like an anchor point and home port for ages and still is.
With a garden of acanthus, ancient box trees and fragrant myrtle beds.
A peaceful cloister of the vanished capuchin friars.
A Sybil, painted in an alcove of the chapel is still watching over.
Family pictures, paintings of immemorial ancestors or daring grandmothers.
Precious and exotic items brought back from far off countries, Indiennes and Madras fabrics on the windows.
Suitcases scattered along corridors, marks of hangings left on the walls.
Little secrets from childhood.
Summer is shaking this solitude through orange sunlight, blue iris, vermilion geraniums, nightingale
trills and bamboo scratching.
Around there, a crazy and exuberant afternoon wind over bulrushes and purple samphires.
At dawn, the milky turquoise tone of the sea.